The Dwarves (54 page)

He sat up, gurgling unintelligibly, and tried to reach the door. The floor rushed toward him.

He had no control over his legs or any other part of his body; even his mind refused to obey him. Babbling, laughing, and
choking, he screamed in pain and terror, crawling and writhing through his chamber and leaving a glistening crimson trail.

He could feel the mist pushing through every vessel in his body, pounding his flesh, foraging in his guts, torturing his manhood,
and never pausing for a moment on its agonizing path.

Then at once the suffering was over.

Nudin lay on the cold marble floor, struggling to regain his breath. Slowly, his dazed senses cleared, and his thoughts and
perceptions became extraordinarily acute.

He clambered to his feet. Blood was caked to his skin and the smell of excrement clung to his robes. Repelled by the filth,
he hurried along the corridors and stood beneath a fountain to wash away the dirt. The cold water revived his spirits, leaving
him refreshed and alert.

And now for a test…
He tried to recall the spells he had heard. The words and gestures returned to him effortlessly, but more remarkably, he
knew their purpose and the correct inflection of every syllable: It was all imprinted on his mind.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t his mind that was furnishing the information, but he brushed that thought aside.

With a rush of exhilaration he thought of all the wonders he had seen, and at once they returned to him, only this time he
could hear, taste, and smell them. The beautiful meadow had its own distinctive aroma, which he recognized instantly. He remembered
the melodies sung by the birds, and he knew that Pajula, for that was the name of the spot, was located beyond the mountains
of his homeland in a place that no one in Girdlegard had heard of, let alone mapped.

Chuckling delightedly, he let the water splash over his skin.

Well, are you satisfied?
asked a voice inside his head.
Have I kept my side of the bargain?

“Yes,” he said aloud, then corrected himself.
Yes, your knowledge is everything you promised it would be.
He decided on a further test.
I want you to leave.

At once he felt an unpleasant burning sensation, then a sudden chill and a feeling of abject loneliness and abandonment. The
mist was preparing to depart. Nudin shuddered at the thought of experiencing such agony a second time.

Stop!
he commanded.
You can stay. I wanted to be sure I could trust you to go.

I entrusted you with my knowledge and memory; you have to trust me. We two are one.

“We two are one,” the magus murmured. He clambered out of the fountain to look for a mirror. There was nothing peculiar about
his reflection: He looked the same as before, although the shirt he took from his wardrobe seemed tighter than usual and the
sleeves were a little too short.

The soul of the Perished Land shared his satisfaction.
I chose well,
it whispered.
You needn’t feel ashamed. You’re not a traitor.

So you can read my thoughts?
Nudin felt embarrassed that his doubts had been detected.

We are one.

Then I should be able to read yours.

Patience! Such things take practice, and practice you shall have. For now our pact must remain a secret. Buy me some time
and say nothing to the other magi until I am ready to be a mother to these lands. Begin your preparations, but work alone
and be sure not to arouse their suspicions. They will accuse you of treachery, Nudin the All-Knowing, but you’re not a traitor;
you’re my friend — my one and only loyal friend.
The whisper faded and the magus was alone.

He strolled to the window and looked out. Sunrise was only a few hours away, but Porista was still slumbering. He turned his
back to it and scanned the rows of books that lined his room.

All these folios, encyclopedias, and grimoires contained only a fraction of the knowledge that was stored in his head. It
gave him a feeling of contentment, infinite wisdom, and completeness. No sooner had a thought occurred to him than he knew
everything there was to know on the matter. He could sate his lust for knowledge without the help of study, travel, experiments,
or books.

A moment later he felt bored: Everything he yearned for was already accomplished.
Saving Girdlegard is the last remaining challenge and nothing and no one can take it from me.

* * *

N
udin drew up a plan of action and devoted himself to his task. It seemed wrong to leave the responsibility of saving Girdlegard
to his knowledgeable friend. He could picture the terrible threat bearing down on his homeland, ready to sweep over the high
mountains and take Girdlegard by storm, and he knew that it was up to him to stop it.

There was no doubt that his new knowledge was useful, but incantations and formulae weren’t enough. In order to apply the
magic, he needed power — more power.

He had already devised a way of acquiring it, channeling it, and making it his own. When the magi next gathered in Porista
to renew the girdle, he would harness their magic energies and present his colleagues with a choice: Join him — or get out
of his way.

Every waking moment was devoted to his plan. He ensconced himself in his laboratory and selected a few of his most loyal famuli
to assist him; when the time was right, they would help him with whatever he had to do.

Älfar emissaries took to visiting him in secret, bringing intelligence gathered in the mountains of Urgon, the plains of Gauragar,
and the highlands of Idoslane. His scouts informed him that the orcs in Tilogorn’s kingdom were prepared to fight on his behalf.

Nudin’s greatest fear was betrayal. Resistance was not to be tolerated: Anyone who challenged him was a threat to Girdlegard
and a traitor to the cause. Dissenters were crushed.

Sometimes, in rare moments of doubt, he wondered whether he was in charge of his actions or whether the spirit inside him
was governing his will.

His misgivings soon disappeared, vanishing as mysteriously and abruptly as they had come. Every now and then his friend would
speak to him and offer his advice, rounding out his plan with helpful suggestions and ideas.

We are one,
he thought gratefully.
Together we will save the race of men.

And yet your cause has been betrayed
.

How so?

One of your apprentices, Heltor, talked to a man by the name of Gorén, a former famulus of Lot-Ionan’s. Our friends heard
them talking at the doors of the palace when the council was in session. He thinks he knows our secret and how we can be sundered.

Nudin was aghast.
Sundered? That’s impossible. I can’t allow it!

Listen to me, Nôd’onn. Gorén won’t be working alone. Lot-Ionan gave him books that tell of our pact. They’re jealous of your
knowledge and power. Don’t let them tear us apart. We are one!

Nudin decided to have Gorén killed.
The älfar will deal with him. They’ll bring back the books and have the famulus punished.

If you kill Gorén, the others will be suspicious. You’ll have to kill them all.

No, I’ll reason with them. They’re bound to understand if I explain it to them, as you explained it to me. Just think what
we could achieve with the power of six magi. We’ll be able to advance on different fronts and our friends will be grateful
for the speedy victory.

The spirit doubted the wisdom of the scheme but said nothing to oppose it, fearing that a disagreement might alienate the
magus.
I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, my one and only friend.

“I hope not,” Nudin said softly. He turned his attention to a book whose contents he knew by heart: There was nothing in his
library that wasn’t present inside his head.

A drop of blood fell onto the open page, obscuring four characters so that the word became unreadable. Blood seeped from his
nose and his eyes, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it became a constant stream.

Nôd’onn knew what lay in store. He rose quickly and hurried to his bed. His bones creaked, his head throbbed, his brain hissed,
and his skin stretched painfully as he suddenly gained another few inches in height.

He screamed, cried, bit his lips until they bled, and thrashed about so violently that he fell out of bed and blacked out.

When he woke, the suffering was a distant memory and all he felt was the habitual desire to eat. His regular feasts resulted
in enormous weight gain, obliging his tailors to replace his wardrobe every week.

He scrubbed the blood from his face and his hands.
How much longer until it stops hurting?

Not long,
the voice whispered.
All this knowledge is too much for a human body. It needs more room. You won’t come to any harm, I promise. We are one.

Nudin made his way hungrily to the dining hall and had his servants set the long trestle table. He ate enough to feed a whole
family, but his appetite wasn’t sated and the cook had to bring out a pair of sizzling roast chickens before he declared himself
full. As he rose from the table he noticed that his sleeves were too short.

A female älf entered the room, holding a letter in her hand…

Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil was so wrapped up in the story that he couldn’t be sure how much of the drama had been enacted by the players and how
much he had imagined for himself.

The spell was finally broken when a hand reached out from the curtain at the rear of the box, took hold of his knapsack, and
pulled it carefully by the straps.

Tungdil saw none of this and was alerted only when the villain lost patience and jerked the bag across the floor. He turned
just in time to see the filcher’s fingers disappearing behind the curtain, together with his pack.

“Hey! Stop thief!” he shouted furiously. “Come back with my bag!” Whipping out his ax, he stormed into the aisle, his hobnailed
boots clattering on the floorboards. “I’ll teach you to respect other people’s property!”

The dramatic tension barely withstood his heavy footsteps and was demolished by his booming voice. There were angry shouts
from the audience, most of them directed at the victim and not the thief.

Count yourselves lucky,
Tungdil thought grimly, ignoring the outcry. He raced after the dark-robed figure, his short legs powering up and down and
filling the auditorium with a thunderous rumble.

“Perhaps the gentleman could make a little less noise!” boomed the counterfeit Nôd’onn from the stage. His älf emissary put
her hands on her slender hips and frowned. She was clad in black armor and looked remarkably convincing despite the ruined
play. The fearsome magus was just an indignant actor. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to entertain our audience!”

“I’ve been robbed!” the dwarf bellowed without slowing. “Your precious theater is harboring a thief!”

“The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend,” the actor said waspishly. “You’re stealing my time, not to mention
plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those
of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!”

On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.

Jackass,
muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next
corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.

“Stop! That’s my bag you’ve stolen!” Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.

At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must
have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a
crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.

The sigurdaisy wood!
He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him,
this was surely the worst.
I didn’t come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal!
he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.

Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high
with woven baskets. He clambered on top.

From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the
guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy — and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince
them of the importance of retrieving his pack?

Er, excuse me, I know the town’s surrounded by orcs, but I’ve lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard
and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.

No one would ever believe him.

He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boïndil would be waiting. To his
unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.

T
ungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to
the gates.

Which gates? Did we enter from the north?

He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers
that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a
muffled groan.

He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted
a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.